


Like Seeing the Sun Rise for the First Time

by Obscure_ramblings



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Mission Fic, Oblivious Joe, minor jealousy, pov switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obscure_ramblings/pseuds/Obscure_ramblings
Summary: Across the centuries, the enchanting brilliance of Yusuf al-Kaysani's smile has continued to wreak havoc, leaving a trail of brokenhearted would-be suitors in his wake. Yet, somehow, he still never sees it coming.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 17
Kudos: 147





	Like Seeing the Sun Rise for the First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [and it starts when you're around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29900787) by [raedear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedear/pseuds/raedear). 



> Riffing off a conversation I had with the lovely raedear in the comments section of “And It Starts When You’re Around” (see “inspired by” link below), in which we speculated on the implausibility of a world in which _literally any human person_ would just recover immediately and go on about their day after Joe smiled at them, especially if they happened to be dancing together at the time. I mean, there’s only so far you can suspend your disbelief. 
> 
> So here’s a 5+1 of just a few of the innocent bystanders over the years who have been hit with Joe’s sunshine smile and consequently fallen in instalove. (No, I’m not projecting. I never project on my favourite fictional characters; why would you even ask that?) (I’m absolutely projecting.) Title from one of my favourite lines in raedear’s work that inspired this spin-off <3

**1\. London, England. 1819. POV Joe.**  
“Oh!” Joe has to scramble to catch the woman as she slumps in his arms, nearly hitting the floor before he manages to balance them both. Her voluminous skirts puff up around them, layering over Joe’s crisply starched knee-length breeches and tall, black boots polished to a high shine.

Smile falling from his face in an instant, Joe’s medic instincts kick in and he places an ear close to her mouth to check that she’s still breathing. The soft puff of air against his cheek is reassuring, and he places the back of his hand across her forehead to check for a fever. Her skin is a little clammy but nothing that would indicate a severe illness.

He’s running through a list of possible diagnoses in his mind when the woman stirs in his arms. A delicate pink flush spreads charmingly across her cheekbones as she takes in their position.

“My lady, are you well?” Joe does his level best to ignore the snort of laughter from Andy, positioned somewhere behind him, as he enquires after his dance partner’s well-being.

“Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry.” Her voice is mortified, blush turning increasingly red as she avoids meeting Joe’s eyes.

“No apology needed; I am glad you are uninjured.” Joe’s wide smile of relief lasts only a moment as the woman’s breath catches at the sight and she slumps once more into his arms, this time displacing the careful arrangement of curls pinned in a halo around her head. Blowing out a breath in frustration, he looks over his shoulder and catches Andy’s eye, trying to signal to her to stop laughing her ass off and come and _help him_ instead.

His rescue comes from another direction, as what can only be the woman’s mother hurries through the crowd, a doctor toting a black leather case following closely on her heels. “Cecilia! Cecilia! Oh, my sweet girl.” 

Transferring the young lady—Cecelia, it seems—over to her mother’s arms, Joe levers himself off the ground and steps back, giving the doctor space to conduct an examination. While the attention of the crowd is focused on the scene in the middle of the ballroom, Joe steps back and stealthily exits through a door set off to the side of the main entryway. If the information Sébastien has obtained is correct, the evidence he needs to acquire should be down this hallway.

Closing the study door silently behind himself, Joe searches the room quickly but finds nothing obvious lying about. As he taps his fingers against the side of the large, mahogany desk, wondering where to look next, he hears an odd, hollow echo. Pressing against the dips in the carved wooden surface, Joe realises there’s a hatch concealed there, the opening hidden in the scrollwork. After a couple of false starts, he gets the right angle to engage the catch and pull the drawer out.

“Yes!” his exclamation of victory is almost soundless. Wrapping the papers in a layer of waterproofed oilskin, Joe shoves it into the waistband at the back of his breeches, covering the shape with the slightly-looser-than-fashionable coat he wears; the fit selected for just this purpose. 

Crossing to the door, Joe listens to make sure no one is in the hallway. Just as he is about to swing the door open hears footsteps approaching and backs away quickly, concealing himself behind the plush, wine-red drapes arranged around the window. “Hello?” he hears a high, light voice say. There’s a rustling of material as the owner of the voice enters the room, skirts sweeping along in their wake.

Joe remains where he is, breathing shallowly so as not to displace the curtains that hide him. The person exits, their footsteps moving further down the hall. 

“Cecelia!” a different voice calls out, approaching the room. Joe recognises it as belonging to the mother of the girl who had fainted in his arms before. He stays stock-still, waiting until she has continued on along the corridor, before he hurries out the now-open door and turns in the opposite direction. Re-entering the ballroom, he gives Andy a slight nod as he strides towards the butler, who is positioned by the front door.

 **2\. Berlin, Germany. 2005. POV Booker.**  
They go where the work takes them, wherever that location might be. An open-air concert might not seem like an obvious place for a mission, but Booker had heard a rumour that an arms dealer they’d been tracking since Kamchatka had just surfaced in Berlin. He, Andy, Joe and Nicky had immediately upped sticks from their present location in Düsseldorf and trekked east to the capital city.

Three days spent trading off turns following their target, Sofia, had given them a clear picture of the slim likelihood of extraction from her heavily guarded fortress of a house, without revealing their inexplicable healing abilities. However, their groundwork had netted them one choice piece of information: Sofia was planning to attend Live 8 Berlin in two days’ time. Booker had promptly purchased four tickets to the event.

Regardless of her Slavic origins, Sofia is evidently a fan of Deutschrock, based on the way she’s flailing her arms in the air, head tipped back as she shout-sings along with the rest of the crowd. The charismatic lead singer is putting her all into the performance, long, dark hair whipping back and forth with her movements as she sings about having had enough of pessimists, and it now being the time for optimism. Booker hopes that’s a fortuitous sign.

He’s been working his way closer to Sofia ever since Silbermond began their performance, letting the movements of the crowd jostle him in the correct direction. When he comes even with her, managing to get a shoulder in front of the bodyguard on her left, Booker leans in and says in fluent German, “The band is good, yeah? It looks as if you are enjoying the concert.”

Sofia’s glare practically ices him over where he stands, and Booker lets his expression fall into a look of disappointment as he slinks away, intentionally letting his body droop as if crushed by the rejection. As he slinks away, he lifts his right hand to tuck the hair flopping in his face behind his ear. That’s the cue for Joe to step up.

When Booker has gotten far enough away that he can be reasonably sure the crowd will block him from the sight of Sofia and her rotating crew of bodyguards, he circles back around to stand next to Andy, who’s using her binoculars to monitor the situation. “How’s he doing?” Booker asks.

Andy scoffs, handing him the binoculars. “See for yourself.”

Looking through the lenses, Booker sees Sofia first. Her expression is much friendlier than it had been when directed at him. In fact, she’s fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly at Joe, who is hovering over her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He uses the hand to spin Sofia in a smooth turn, ending by dipping her and laughing brightly in response to the giggle she lets loose. One of her bodyguards is impassive, but the other looks like they’ve been sucking on a lemon, clearly unsure how to respond to such a break in their employer’s character.

Sofia runs a finger down the front of Joe’s shirt, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Joe replies in kind, intercepting her hand before it can descend too low. He kisses it again, then turns to leave. The smirk on his face tells Booker that Joe is aware he’s reeled her in hook, line and sinker.

Pausing no more than a moment, Sofia almost immediately trails after Joe, looking outraged at his abandonment as she waves off her bodyguards. Joe doesn’t look back as he leads her towards where Nicky is positioned, waiting to whip a bag over her head and cart her off to their contact, who will arrange her transfer to the relevant authorities.

Booker groans. He should have known better than to take that bet. Lowering the binoculars, he reaches into his back pocket and extracts a wad of cash, slapping into Andy’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Book.” She grins at him.

 **3\. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. 2015. POV Andy.**  
Eight elegant women, garbed in wide-legged trousers under knee-length tunics with split hems, cross the stage in graceful circles, smiling at the audience and at each other as they pass. Each one holds a conical hat in her hands, passing from palm to palm, occasionally hovering above her head. The flowing movements of arms, swaying jet-black hair and delicate steps have Andy thoroughly hypnotised.

One woman in particular catches her eye, and Andy struggles not to project Quỳnh onto her. It’s hard, though, being back in Quỳnh’s home country, seeing the ways in which Vietnam has both changed and stayed the same since the last time they visited. 

Rotating out, one after the other, from the rhythm they’ve been following in impressive synchrony for the past several minutes, each dancer floats over to the audience and extends a hand to bring someone to the stage. The women Andy had been trying—and failing—to keep her eyes off walks directly over to Joe, cutting off a fellow dancer who also appears to be making a beeline for him, and holds out her hand. Through the tiny speaker embedded in Joe’s ear, Andy can just hear the woman’s melodious voice ask Joe to join her in the dance.

“Of course!” Joe’s reply is clear through the earpiece. He rarely turns down an opportunity to dance, even when it’s a style with which he’s unfamiliar. That’s not the case this time, of course; he’d been an apt pupil under Quỳnh’s tutelage and the pair had spent many an evening dancing the hours away as Andy and Nicky looked on from beside the camp fire, playing instruments or just tapping out a beat on the ground.

Matching the movements of the dancers, both trained and amateur, who are bunched around him, Joe gives himself over to the rhythm. The woman who had brought him into the dance is looking utterly spellbound, hardly taking her eyes off him even when she’s turning in small circles, the hat drawing a silken pattern through the air around her.

Andy’s mouth twitches as the woman stumbles, tripping over her own feet in her bid to maintain constant eye contact. Joe catches her, of course he does, and smooths the fall into a gentle dip over his arm, reeling her in to stand as soon as she’s got her feet back under herself.

“Thank you,” Andy hears the woman say, breathlessly. The look on her face as she stares up at Joe is a familiar one to Andy, bringing to mind the days she was worshiped as a god.

Joe smiles brightly down at the woman and compliments her on her grace, likening it to the drift of a delicate blossom caught upon a breeze. Andy rolls her eyes as she surveys the crowd. Their target hasn’t made an appearance in the three hours they’ve been camped out in the square, and they’re known for being early to retire in the evening. It looks like tonight’s mission is a bust; they’ll have to try again the following day. “Alright, boys, let’s roll out.” They decided in advance to rendezvous a few streets beyond the entrance to the park, should this be the outcome.

Booker and Nicky offer up verbal confirmation and Joe gives a subtle nod, unable to speak owing to the close proximity of the woman before him. “Thank you for the dance,” he says to her, unwinding his arm and stepping away. The dancer’s expression changes, suddenly very determined, and she pulls something from her pocket, following after Joe with swift, light footsteps. The item is small, hidden in her palm, but Andy tenses, hissing out a warning to Joe. He responds right away, turning back to face his pursuer. The woman reaches out to slide whatever is in her hand into the front pocket of Joe’s jeans, causing him to swivel his hips out of her reach.

“Hey there, did I drop something?” Joe’s expression is relatively neutral but Andy can see the tense lines of his body language as he prepares for a possible attack. 

“The key to my room. I am staying at a hotel just over there.” She points behind Joe, waiting until he turns to follow the direction of her finger, then taking the opportunity to stuff the key into his pocket.

Joe instantly turns back to face her and fishes the key out, putting it in her hand and wrapping her fingers closed around it as he steps back, trying to put some distance between then. “I’m so sorry, I seem to have given you the wrong impression.” In an odd inverse of the graceful dance they’d been sharing earlier, he’s now walking backwards further and faster, glancing over his shoulder to avoid crashing into anyone.

Nicky’s voice crackles quietly through the earpiece, “Joe, what’s happening?” He and Nile are likely already at the meeting point, unable to see the actions accompanying the conversation they’re overhearing.

Andy lets out a snicker. “Another victim of the trademark Yusuf al-Kaysani sunshine smile.” The low volume of her speech does nothing to hide her amusement. She walks up to the pair and links her arm through Joe’s, feeling the tension leave his body as he sags into her familiar touch. “Sorry, this one’s taken,” she says to the woman, and tows Joe in her wake as she marches towards the park exit.

“Thanks, boss.” Joe’s gratitude is heartfelt. Andy just shakes her head and laughs at the look on his face. 

**4\. Rarotonga, Cook Islands. 2018. POV Nicky.**  
Nicky has been thoroughly enjoying the idyllic bliss of their fortnight-long retreat on a tropical island in the southern Pacific Ocean, so different to their usual vacation destination of Malta. The first week and a half he and Joe had spent largely in bed or in the ocean, swimming and snorkeling, but as the end of their holiday approaches they’ve decided to venture out and see some of the local attractions.

Tonight, Joe’s signed them up for an evening cultural tour that includes dinner and a showcase of local dancers and musicians. Nicky is already anticipating the moment he will be abandoned at their table when Joe joins the dancers.

The guided tour is fascinating. Their previous visits this far south coincided with work, leaving little to no time for tourist activities, so many of the details regarding the history of Rarotonga are new to both Joe and Nicky. There are many similarities to the other Pacific Islands, but also some unique traditions and customs. Nicky watches with interest as a tall man wearing a combination of modern and traditional clothing hacks a coconut open with a single well-placed blow. He exchanges a look with Joe, knowing without needing to speak that Joe also appreciates the amount of practice that type of precision manoeuvre must require.

When the tour is over, their guide delivers the group to the dining area, where the buffet offers a fusion of local and Western cuisine types. Joe feeds Nicky a bite of rukau, a green taro-leaf-based dish, and in return Nicky offers up a forkful of lemon-accented ika mata, cupping a hand under the utensil to catch a drop of coconut milk that falls from the mix of fish and finely diced vegetables. Joe winks at Nicky as he draws his palm closer to lick up the errant droplet, and Nicky suppresses a shiver at the tickle of Joe’s beard. 

They’re still wrapped up in each other, food languishing on the table, when the Polynesian performers file onto the wooden stage, which has been anchored over a body of water wreathed in lily pads. The musicians pound out a beat and a narrator sets the scene as the dancers act out the Legend of Tongaiti, showing how the island came to be settled by their ancestors.

Nicky clocks one man who appears to be in his late 20s or early 30s, mahogany skin overlaid with sprawling curlicued tattoos, looking in their direction more than casual incidence would account for. He sighs internally, moving up the timeline for his anticipated upcoming abandonment. Joe is, as ever, oblivious to the attention, swept up in the spectacle of the show, his eyes shining bright with enthusiasm.

As the show moves on to the audience participation part, the Polynesian man who had been watching them approaches. Jealousy isn’t an emotion Nicky feels often, knowing full well that Joe would never stray, but something about the intensity of the last few days they’ve spent relearning each other kicks his latent possessiveness into high gear. He turns to Joe and hauls him in for a thoroughly not-family-friendly kiss that’s wholly unsuited to their surroundings. The sudden move startles a squeak out of Joe, but he doesn’t take long to catch up, kissing Nicky back with equal enthusiasm. 

The wooden boards of the floor creak next to them and Nicky pulls back to see the dancer is standing there. “Do you mind if I borrow your takatāpui?” he asks, already looping a hand around Joe’s upper arm and pulling him up to stand. Joe goes willingly but looks back to wink at Nicky and blow him another kiss on his way up to join the others on stage. 

Nicky feels a little foolish for his territorial display but is nonetheless glad to have staked his claim when the dancers all crowd around Joe, cheering him on as he stomps his feet and rocks his hips in time with the beat. Joe is barely visible in their midst; his 6-foot-even height equalled or exceeded by many of the tall, sturdy Islanders.

The music slows and the the dancers break apart, revealing Joe once more. He’s now adorned with several strands of seashell necklaces, a woven headband that sits askew on his curly hair and one very bright red lipstick print on his right cheek. Looking a little dazed, Joe rubs at the lipstick as he walks back over to Nicky, but pulls on a cheeky smile as he resumes his seat, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb. “Guess one of them missed the memo, huh?”

Nicky looks over at the dance group. A few of them are watching Joe’s progress and laughing as they take in Nicky’s expression. He focuses his intense gaze on them, marking the moment when their humour slowly dies away and they start to shuffle their feet, darting glances up at him instead of making direct eye contact.

“Hayati,” Joe chides him softly. “You know I have eyes only for you.”

Waiting another moment to make sure the dancers are definitely disbursing now, none of them making a move in his and Joe’s direction, Nicky bends his gaze on Joe instead, speaking his intentions in a single, purposeful glance. Joe shivers under the hand Nicky places on his thigh, then stands quickly. “I think the show is over. Shall we?”

Nicky lets Joe pull him up, following behind him as they make their exit. Very closely behind him, in fact, with one hand tucked into the back pocket of the colourfully printed board shorts Joe’s wearing. When he pinches Joe’s ass through the fabric, Joe lets out another delightful squeaking noise, shaking his head at Nicky’s impatience but obligingly increasing his pace as they hurry back to their small rental car.

 **5\. Toronto, Canada. 2020. POV Nile.**  
It’s Nile’s first undercover mission at a black-tie event and she’s feeling a little out of her comfort zone. In the months she’s been globe-trotting with Andy, Joe and Nicky, she’s been in a few unexpected situations requiring quick thinking and swift action, but this? This is peak boredom. Smiling politely at yet another person who’s commenting on the unseasonable warmth of the weather in Ontario at this time of year, Nile pretends to sip from a flute of champagne while she discreetly scans the room.

Nicky is nearby, dressed in an intimidatingly crisp black tuxedo that hugs his broad shoulders before tapering down to button around his slim waist. The look of cool disdain he’s angling at the man standing in front of him, who is gesticulating wildly as his face grows redder and redder in the face of Nicky’s bland indifference, offers a moment of amusement.

“Nile.” Andy’s voice is quiet in her earpiece.

Feigning spotting someone she knows, Nile does a little wave across the room at the nonexistent individual, placing her hand briefly on the forearm of the person who had been talking at her, and excusing herself much more graciously than the selfish conversationalist deserves. Nicky is on the move too, offering his arm to an older woman and drawing her onto the dance floor. He flashes a charming smile that’s all the more brutal in contrast to the utter lack of reaction he’d been giving the red-face man he’s just walked away from. 

Walking around the edge of the dancefloor as swiftly as she can manage in four-inch heels, the extra height necessary to keep her dress of gold-leaf overlaid with black vines from trailing on the floor, Nile passes by where Joe is dancing with a man about her age, who is staring at Joe with a star-struck expression. Honestly, Nile can’t blame the guy; Joe does wear a tuxedo really well, showcasing without a hint of self-consciousness the ridiculously long length of his legs in tight, _tight_ trousers. 

The song is drawing to an end as Nile reaches the manorhouse’s foyer and takes a left into an alcove where a large marble bust is displayed. She pauses, bending down and fiddling with the strap of her shoe, giving Joe and Nicky time to catch up. Nicky appears a moment later, brushing a brief touch of reassurance against her arm on his way past. He follows the curved wall leading to the eastern wing and disappears silently through a door, leaving it ajar. Joe is only a few seconds behind but as he draws even with Nile, footsteps approach and a deep voice calls out, “Wait!” It’s the man Joe had been dancing with.

Joe half-turns, body language clearly conveying his desire to continue on his way. Nile stands straight once more and starts walking in the same direction Nicky had taken, albeit much slower than before in case Joe ends up needing backup. She’s still close enough to overhear when the man says, “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the dance. Can I…maybe get your number?”

Containing the sharp crack of laughter that wants to burst forth from her lips, Nile tries to arrange her face into a neutral expression. She looks over her shoulder to see that Joe’s trying to let the man down gently, but as he goes to step away, the man makes a second attempt to draw him back into conversation, then a third. Joe’s face tightens with frustration at his inability to shake off his new admirer.

Gratified that her decision to wait has proven worthwhile, Nile circles back to intercept the man, approaching from behind him as she calls out a request for directions to the restroom. While the man’s back is turned, Joe seizes the opportunity to slip away, doing an odd little half-run/glide across the wide expanse of the brightly lit foyer. Nile will definitely be mocking him for that scurry of shame later on.

The devastated expression on the man’s face when he looks back to see Joe has gone is genuinely hard to observe, but Nile tries not to feel too bad for him. Hitting on one half of the world’s most established pairing was always going to get him exactly nowhere.

 **+1. Malta, Mediterranean. 2001. POV Nicky.**  
While Joe’s prowess as a dancer is well-established, even after centuries of practice his singing remains endearingly off-key when he tries to go above a certain register. Nicky smiles to himself as Joe’s voice echoes out from the bathroom, pitching over the sound of running water. A British girl group remake of an 80s pop song has been playing relentlessly on every radio station for the last few weeks they’ve been on vacation at their house in Malta, and it’s catchy enough to have gotten firmly stuck in Joe’s head.

“Is this burning, an eternal flaaaaaaame.” That seems to be the grand finale, as Joe shuts the shower off at the same moment he draws the prolonged note to a close. Nicky can hear him humming to himself now, the same song but at a lower volume. 

A few minutes later, having detoured to the bedroom to get dressed, Joe appears in the door of the lounge. He comes over to where Nicky is sprawled on the couch, a doorstopper of a book propped up against his knee and held open with one hand as he uses the other to feed himself olives from a small dish positioned on the cushioned surface at his side. Nicky gives Joe a lazy smile as he approaches. “Your finest performance yet, my love.”

Joe grins, performing a courtly bow in response to Nicky’s small tease. “Thank you, hayati.” He plucks the book from Nicky’s hand and drops it on the coffee table with a thump, pulling Nicky up into his arms and spinning him into an impromptu dance. As they sway together, bodies pressed close from the sides of the faces to their thighs, Joe lets out a happy sigh. “I will never tire of dancing with you.”

Nicky presses their cheeks together a little more firmly, enjoying the gentle scratch of Joe’s beard against his own smooth-shaven skin. “And I with you.”

Leaning his head back far enough that Nicky can see the glitter of humour in his dark brown eyes, Joe says, “Though that was not always the case, I seem to recall.”

Nicky rolls his eyes at Joe’s cheeky expression. “I told you, I tripped!”

Letting out a bark of laughter, Joe counters immediately, “Yes, and fell into the river and lost our dinner and half your wardrobe in the process!” At Nicky’s snooty little humph of grudging agreement, Joe prompts him, “Remind me, why did that happen?”

Nicky sighs, playing along, trying to restrain the smile that’s nudging at the corners of his lips. “Because the first time we danced together, you pulled me into a ridiculously complicated spin, then smiled at me _like that, yes_!” He gestures to Joe’s beaming visage, before continuing, “And I stumbled over the piece of wood that was propping up both our dinner and our washing line, and took them with me when I fell into the river. The fast-flowing river. Where I nearly drowned.”

Joe is laughing heartily now, head tipped back. Nicky gives up on his faux outrage, regarding him fondly before leaning in to place his lips against the column of Joe’s throat, absorbing the mirthful vibrations as he tucks their bodies back into close alignment and resumes the swaying motion. 

Letting out a last chortle, Joe returns the tight squeeze. After a few moments of silence he starts humming “Eternal Flame” again, and Nicky thinks once more, as he has so many times over the centuries, that there is nowhere else he would rather be in this moment, than here with this ridiculous man whom he loves beyond all measure and reason.

**Author's Note:**

> *taking a deep breath as I link it here for the very first time* You can find me on [the tumbls](https://boutiquetraveltravelboutique.tumblr.com/) most every day, at random intervals anywhere between 1am and 9pm cos sleep and me are not best buds. I’d suggest you brace yourself before clicking—but if you’ve read any of the many, M A N Y comments I’ve written on my own and other people’s fics, you’ve probably already got a good idea of the carefully curated balance of 24/7 thirstposting, obscenity screaming and tag rambling that is my Tumbl-blog ✌🏻


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